


Halo Down

by blueabsinthe



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 08:47:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/595793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueabsinthe/pseuds/blueabsinthe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Brad is involved in a car accident, he makes one last phone call ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Halo Down

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [This Fragile World Is Tearing Apart At The Seams](https://archiveofourown.org/works/637673) by [boltschick2612](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boltschick2612/pseuds/boltschick2612). 



> Takes place somewhere in between the events of my fic [Between Two Lungs](http://archiveofourown.org/works/425192). Title from a song by A Perfect Circle.

This is how it starts.

Stumbling across the threshold, him pressing you against his closed door, as his hands busily tug your dress shirt loose from your dress pants. You slide his coat down his arms, your hands balled in a fist on his shirt front, as your lips meet. You're sharing breath, as if coming up for air would be the catalyst for doubt to form, and manifest. But, it's not doubt skirting the edges now, it's adrenaline, and anxiety. Anxiety at what will happen if you do pull apart. The faint taste of mint lingers on your tongue as you explore his mouth with your tongue. Both of your sets of hands clumsily fumble on buttons, and zippers as you stumble towards the bedroom. 

_Hank ..._

Your name leaving his lips sounds like he's whispering it to the heaven's. And, there's the feel of his warm hands pressing against your sides, and sweat soaked brows as you lean your forehead against his. As you break apart, a breath hangs between you two like unspoken words. But, you don't want to let go. You can only feel where your bodies meet. 

_Brad …_ Your voice sounds distant, and far away. Almost as if you're unsure this is actually happening. 

And, you would be correct in that assumption. So, let's say this didn't happen. 

Instead, this happens …

-»«-

First game in the first round against the seventh seeded Ottawa Senators goes well. Boyle scores the game winning goal. Callahan is awarded the Broadway Hat. One game down on your long, arduous journey to the Cup.

The locker room is electric. The atmosphere practically pulses with it as you remove your gear and listen to the sounds of your teammates around you. Your eyes flit around the room, until they stop on him. His back is to you, but you watch as he rubs his hair with a towel, and notice as he rummages around in his bag before he retrieves his phone. 

He is smiling as he talks animatedly on his phone. You wonder if it's Vincent. Actually, you're almost positive it's Vincent. Brad usually never looks this happy unless Vincent is somehow involved. The thought tugs at your heartstrings, because you know. You know you two could never be anything more than just … 

_Henke, great game!_ Dubi pats you on the shoulder as he makes a beeline for the exit. 

You smile and offer a slight nod of your head in acknowledgement, before you gather up your gear and head towards the locker room doors. You barely notice when he falls into step beside you.

_Great win tonight_ , he will say, beaming at you. His amber eyes alive, looking so much like life, light, and summer, it robs you of breath for a moment. 

_It was_ , you manage to get out. 

_We have a long run ahead of us, Hank._

It is the last words spoken between you before you climb into your car, and watch as he makes his way towards his. 

He is on your mind the whole ride back to your apartment. You know it's not just the high from winning the game. It's more than that. It's the unmistakeable look he has in his eyes. The same look you have been fighting ever since Christmas. The unmistakeable 'Take me back to your place and mess me up in the best way possible' look. And, it's the one thing you can't possibly go through with. Not for lack of wanting to, but more because it just wouldn't be fair. 

Not fair to you, because you know it would be more about availability than preference. You were never one to settle for anything less than you felt you deserved. And, most importantly, it wouldn't be fair to Vincent. And, you know Brad would be thinking the same thing the whole time. 

So, you settle for letting the memories of Christmas creep up like a cloud.

-»«-

The smell of pine needles and spiced apples hang in the air as you take a seat across from him at his kitchen island. The cameras are rolling; you're not sure if they're trained on you at that particular moment. All that really exists is the two of you. It's as if for a short while him and you are the only two people to exist. The raucous laughter of your teammates floats around you as they compare garish Christmas sweaters.

_I host a Christmas dinner, and it morphs into an ugly Christmas sweater party_ , he mumbles, swirling the crystal wineglass, the blood red wine hugging the sides of the glass as it begins its slow descent down the sides. The liquid moves slowly, and you cannot help but find how odd it is, seeing as how the roar of your blood as it rushes past your ears moves faster than a comet. 

And, you cannot help but think how he is like a comet. How he just seems to light up everything around him. His smile is warm, inviting, as it curls around you, before settling somewhere slightly underneath your skin. How his laughter is infectious, but deceptively smooth as it lodges itself in your lungs. His amber eyes catch yours across the dim lighting, and you watch him roll the stem of his wineglass between his thumb and index finger. 

And, if you kiss him on impulse, would it be the same feeling you have when you win a game? The Garden faithful chanting your name. Would it be like that? The thought alone is enough to cause your mind to become inundated with thoughts. Thoughts of how he would look against your exorbitantly priced sheets, hair mussed, lips swollen, a breathlessness in his expression. Looking at him across the minute space separating you two you cannot help but wonder if he wants the same thing you do. It doesn't matter, because the imagination is a powerful thing. And, perhaps, that's all this is. Your imagination working overtime. 

You only know one thing in that instant that is the truth. The one thing that you're sure your imagination has not built up ever since the beginning of the season. You want him. Of this much you're sure. That, at least you know, is the truth. 

This, of course, leads to this …

-»«-

You know how they say you can never remember the beginning of a dream? How when you dream, you almost always seem to end up right smack dab in the middle of it?

Whoever said that was lying. Because, you know how you ended up here. You know how you came to be standing in your kitchen, watching as the screen of your phone blinks, and vibrates from its place on the granite countertop. You reach out for it, fumbling slightly as you race to answer it before the last ring sounds.

And … oh - you did it. You manage to answer it before it stops ringing. Except, after you press it against your ear, you half-wish you'd never answered it. 

_I see you enough during the day, and yet you decide to call me now. If you're not careful I might get the wrong idea, Brad_ , you breathe into the receiver. You try to keep your tone light, but there's something off about the whole situation.

_What if I want you to get the wrong idea?_ He will say back. His tone is strained, like he's holding something back.

_Brad …_ you will start, pressing your phone closer to your ear, and christ why is his laboured breathing so deafening. _Is everything okay?_

_Your concern for my well being is touching, Hank._

A pause. But, oh, wait, is that a siren in the background of the call? No. Can't be. And, even if it was, sirens wail all the time. After all, this is New York City. Anything can happen in, well, a New York minute. 

_Hank?_

_I'm still here, Brad._

_Keep talking to me._

No, you definitely hear sirens in the background. And, it takes all your self-control to not crack under the pressure of not knowing where those sirens are coming from. 

_Is everything okay? Did something happen?_

His shaky laughter reverberates in your chest, and you cannot help but clutch the phone tighter. 

_No, no. Nothing's wrong, Hank. I just wanted … wanted to call someone._

_And that lucky someone was me?_

You think you can hear glass crunching in the background. But, that is impossible. It isn't logical. Or is it?

_Maybe I care_ , he says, before he coughs quietly. 

It sounds off. His cough that is. It sounds … strained.

_Brad … what's wrong?_

_Nothing, Hank. I told you. I just wanted to talk to someone I … someone I care about._

_Why me instead of Vince?_

He laughs, before he breaks into a round of coughs. _Always with the questions …_

 _Brad …_

There are voices in the background of your phone connection. Too many to be normal. Their sounds all meld together, making them unintelligible.

This didn't happen. Except, it did. It is happening. No, no, no … you are dreaming. You have to be. This isn't happening. This is not playing out like a scene in a movie. Except, it is. But, wait, oh … if this is playing like a movie, does that mean you can press pause? 

No? Oh, that's right, because it's playing on the big screen. And, there is no pause button for movie theatre movies ... 

But, let's be honest, the pause button is only temporary. Like trying to stop a boat already ridden with holes from sinking. 

_Hank, are you … are you still there?_

_Yes, I'm still here._

He laughs. _Good. I'd be heartbroken if you hung up._

 _Oh, Brad, I think you'd survive._

There is a long pause, accompanied by another round of him coughing. Something sounds off about this. The sounds are strained, and they sound … no, you don't want to think about that. 

_Would I?_ he manages to get out.

_Brad …_ you stare straight ahead. Watch as the numbers on your oven blink and change. And, no, you are not mistaken. You definitely hear sirens now, and lots of shouting coming from his end of the line. The realization makes you grip the phone tighter. The noise is deafening. It makes you feel like you are drowning. The silence between you two right now is vast, it seems to stretch for miles. 

_Hank … do you ever think about what it would be like to live again?_

_What are you talking about?_

_If you could … if you could live your life again, do you think … do you think everything would be the same as it is now?_

Every word you want to say gets stuck in your throat. Given half the chance, you think they would choke you. The words are extraneous, because they are never going to be enough. They will never be the ones you want to say to him.

If you could live your life over again, you would just say them. If you knew for sure he felt the same, there would be no hesitation. No dipping in one toe in at a time. All in. 

You would live your life over and over again. Be everything you ever wished you could have been if the NHL never happened, but only if it meant he was in your life in some capacity. Because in every different lifetime, you would fall in love with …

No, rewind. Erase the last part. 

Go back to the present. Where were you? Oh, yes, you have the phone pressed to your ear, as you hear sirens wail in the background. This is not happening, this is not happening, this is not happening, you tell yourself over and over again. Except, it is. And, just … oh …

_Do you?_ you finally manage to get out. 

_I don't know if I'd want to live another life again if I hadn't met you_ , he says. You can hear the honesty in his tone. His voice does nothing to rid yourself of the lump in your throat. 

_Now I definitely might get the wrong idea._ You force yourself to laugh in an attempt to keep the conversation light.

_Hank_ , his voice is wavering now, you can hear it in his tone. _There was … I was … there was an accident._

 _Brad_ , you start, hesitation in your tone.

_Christmas_ , he says simply.

_What about it?_

_I noticed the way you look at me. It was around Christmas._

_I …_

_Hank, I know_ , he confesses finally.

And, this moment right now holds the answer to everything you ever wondered about at Christmas.

He wants you, or at least you think he does. So, let's just go with that. That he does. But, oh, wait … is that just your mind playing tricks on you? 

Who the hell cares. You're the one living the moment. So … let's say he does want you. And you want him. 

How does that phrase go again? _If p, then q … if p is true; therefore q must be true …_ or something like that.

So, if the above holds true, let's say you wanting him is p. Q is him wanting you. Therefore, the logical conclusion is the two sides should meet in the middle. Except … fuck the logical sequence. Because, whoever said wanting someone follows a logical line of thinking obviously had a sick sense of humour. 

The silence stretches between you two. It is as vast, and wide as a canyon. Somehow you're quite sure he is waiting for you to say something. An answer, almost. If you want to call it that. The problem is, do you have one?

Honestly, you've had one from the very beginning. It's the one you have been playing with over and over in your mind. Now's your chance. Who knows if you may get another …

You shut your eyes. Picture him smiling back at you, amber eyes just as bright and brilliant as a comet. And, finally, you think you can finally say the words aloud. 

Except, this happens …

-»«-

_Promise_. His voice is calm, remote, distant. It seems to come from far away.

_Anything. What do you want me to promise?_ you say in a voice you barely recognize as your own. Your hand gripping the phone tightly as you hear the sirens closing in.

_Vinny … that you'll … that you won't say anything to Vinny._ Brad's voice trails off. You hear him cough again. _You can't say anything to Vinny._ His tone, this time, is insistent.

You bite so hard on your bottom lip. More just to see if you actually feel it; you do. Your eyes are screwed shut, as you inhale a shaky breath. _Don't tell Vince what?_

_Promise me first, Hank._

_Bradley, don't talk like that._

_Promise, Hank … please._

_Bradley._ Your tone is sharp, controlled. More out of an effort to stop yourself from sinking to the floor. You are quite sure your knuckles are white from the death grip they have on your phone. _Damnit, Bradley, answer me. Brad!_

_It'd break his ... it'd break his heart, if he ... if he knew._

_Come on, Brad. You're going to be fine. Stop talking nonsense._

_Hank,_ he whispers. _We have to stop … stop kidding ourselves. We both know I'm probably not going to ... make it._

 _Don't be silly, Brad, you will. You are going to come out of this._

Oh God, is that your voice cracking over every word? 

_Hank?_

_I'm here._

_Good. Keep talking to me._

_I will._

_Until the end?_ his voice sounds laced with doubt. _Promise?_

_Until however long you need me -_

Your voice is cut off by another voice. Not his. It sounds professional, but rushed ...

_Sir! Can you hear my voice?_

 _He's still breathing!_

The last words you manage to get out before the dull buzzing tone hits your ears is _I promise._


End file.
